#The Most Gilnean

[findmeinshattrath]

Real Talk

It was so unnecessary for them to rename the Alliance and Horde districts in Legion Dalaran

[gravekeeper-anna]

Daily Writing Challenge - February 2025 Day 4: (Feb 12) Salty / Euphoria @daily-writing-challenge

The Gravekeeper stepped into the forgotten gravesite just outside the border of Silverpine Forest, a figure of unearthly presence that was not unusual to see in those haunted spaces. But on this particular night another awaited her, just as she had asked. 

“Doctor VanDall,” she greeted with a simplistic courtesy. The Keeper seemed calmer than the raging banshee she had been when last he saw her. She was further defined by the streamlining of her lady-like form, foregoing the burden of once heavy ebon armor in favor of a spectral flow of gothic veils and finery. Most noticeable beyond her was the steed of deathly magnificence she lead by the reins, a skeletal eidolon fit with a pale barding a shade darker than the sculpted ivory network of its bones. A pale blue flame flickered eternally in its eye sockets, weaved further within the whole of it.

“I’m quite pleased with the return of the skeleton, as was promised. The roses were…unexpected.” She paused as she gathered her complicated thoughts regarding the Gilnean white bundle, one rose for each day she had been away in the Northern Lands. “I… realize that I was quite horrid the day I left. You were deserving of more patience than I had to provide.”

From the moment Anna arrived, the Plague Doctor feasted on the details of her appearance the way a starving beggar eyed a fully prepared table.  His expression was unreadable, but his body language more than made up for the concealment from his chosen mask.  His gaze devoured her lithe frame while clasping both hands behind his back, and it was obvious he fought to restrain himself– lest he make a mess of the proverbial ‘dining room.’

“I was delighted to receive your invitation,” he confessed.  “Your presence is the balm that soothes the ache in my heart, knowing we parted in such angst.  It does me well to see you are not only surviving… but thriving.”

From the lady’s newfound preference in attire to the shift in the way she carried herself, there were several distinct changes worth noting.  Despite the metaphorical ‘hunger pangs’ gnawing at his gut, encouraging Warrick to gorge himself on her presence, he knew she was a flavor to be savored.  Like a fine wine, he drank her in slowly.

A look of appraisal was given to the form and theme VanDall had taken to, oblivious to the struggle brewing beneath his masked countenance as he took her in. The Plague Doctor was a fitting look he had clearly grown comfortable in, and the formality of the Gilnean gentleman that flooded his voice was an old, if pleasant familiarity. “You took to a new body remarkably well, as I see it. Faster than most Risen I’ve known to. I am… proud. To see it.” She glanced one more considering moment at the steed, and drifted forward to offer out its reins to the Doctor. “You’ll need a proper mount to ride along on, I think. And this one is yours to do as you will with. I promise you that. Think of it as a bit of a…graduation present.”

“Why, I did it for you, my Lady.  So that I might become something more than a mere shadow cast by the absence of your ghostly illumination.”  What he believed she needed was an equal to stand by her side, and not a sloppy amalgamation of bone to entertain at a tea-table.  “The stars could never hold a candle to the moon’s radiance, yet it does not discourage them from sharing the same sky… if only to bask in her beauty.”

His confusion was made evident by the slight tilt of his head, and in that moment he resembled an avian creature more than a man.  “A gift?”  [Surely he was the transgressor here, why else would she have been so cross with him?  Yet here she was, offering him an apology.  Evidently there were more elements at play than he had been made aware of.]

Anna stilled at the eloquent confession, the rather poetic turn of phrase earning him a precious luminent glance that roved him, and sought his masked eyes. Though a touch theatrical, the Doctor certainly had a gift for romanticism that deepened far past bawdy flirt and playful banter most Forsaken had in them. It rendered her to a momentary quiet, her own words stolen from her.

And then the Doctor mimicked the raven he seemed modeled for with his befuddled tilt and questioning. A most delicate sound of amusement broke her unsteady silence, drawing her gaze away once more. “Yes, dear Doctor. A gift.”

Lightly, she stroked the flank of the mount, idly straightening the cloth of its barding as she did so. “Threading together these sculpts are the ultimate in artistry for me. The Northern Lands gave me new elements to include in the making. Some of my longer lost are housed with it, where they find new purpose in its enlivening. I’d like to think they are content with the shaping to bone.”

The weight of her resonant voice pitched back to a softer, all too fond haunt as she regarded the equine, expressing a rare passion. “Bringing it all together is perhaps the closest to creation I can achieve in this life. It’s in its own way euphoric for me, to witness it all coalesce in the moment of animation. Forging life from death.”

The Lady at last released the steed from her touch with a finality, her lantern eyes returning to the Doctor with a nod of easing composure. “I hope you will also find a sort of artistry that moves you in your new life now.”

He studied the skeletal equine, seemingly satisfied with her understanding of its anatomy before allowing his gaze to linger on its maker– from one compelling creation to another.  “It is magnificent… truly,” he remarked.  “I am both humbled and honored to possess such a fine composition of living art… crafted by the hands of an even finer specimen of deathly grace and beauty.”

As she handed over the reins, the Doctor captured her hand in his gloved fingers before elevating it to his beak, where he brushed the leather of his mask across her knuckles in an expression of gentle reverence.  “Thank you, my lovely Dove,” he whispered in a low, seductive tone while holding her gaze.  “If I were to provide half the care to this creature as you have given me, then he should find himself the most fortunate steed in all of Azeroth.”  Within those reflective goggles Anna would behold a new vision of herself, a projection of divinity through the eyes of her admirer.

It may have been the perfect display of gratitude, a true courtly gesture as the Doctor brought her hand in for such a reverent kiss. But the deepest seduction of tone that might have made any other woman so easily fluster crept along the Gravekeeper’s spine with an inevitable dismay for that damnable word: “dove”. Dismay snapped, and fueled the ire of the deeply scorned, or scarred. The pale ‘moon’ suddenly darkened like the shadowed side of an icewall, the soft touch of her skin freezing over with a death-touched frost. She easily wrenched herself free of his touch and uttered words with a cold snap: “I am not your ‘lovely dove. You’d do well to erase that train of thought around me if you think so well of me.”

The Keeper let herself ‘thaw’ as she once again put some distance between herself and the Doctor, back turned to him. What softness that the Lady Anna might have been lured by with poetic adoration retreated in favor of the duty of her spade as she stabbed into the grave soil with its blade. Wings unfurled from a nearby tree where a Great Plaguebat hung, pummeling the air with its wing span as it came to collect her. 

“Ride well, Doctor. You may petition to find me at my Haunt if you have questions, concerns. Desire tea, even. I have other appointments to “Keep”.”

{ Written with the assistance of the amazing @the-plagued-d0ctor}

[wyrmguardsecrets]

Holy crap, do you people seriously have nothing better to do with your lives then accuse everyone of being 'sex addict, pedo, pedo defender, sex addict defender, stalker, stalker defender, fucking leprechaun hyponotizer or some shit. Have you all thought about just playing the game? Most, if not all of us don't give a single fuck about someone's private life. You can block and move on. Championing that this hell blog is somehow superior to twitter and its 'fake' accusations is nothing short of hilarity and foolishness. You all do realize you're turning those actual terms into buzz words right? If these people are THAT bad, report them to blizzard. Im 99.9% sure that is something they have to investigate. But you won't do that because then you can't be anonymous, dragging literally people who just died through mud, or anybody else that doesn't suit your fancy. Today its TOA people again, Tomorrow it will be argent guild #83829 The Weekend will be back to Gilneas Oh hey look more AI art shit, lets debate that 4 million times in a 24 hour period. Next week we will be back on trump or ff14 vs wow, or how frogs really are turning people gay. Go out get some sunlight, touch your wife. Go ask someone of the opposite or same sex to dance or get a drink i don't judge. Do something then constantly post the same shit rehashed over and over and over and over and over and over and over. 99.9999% of everyone on this server just wants to escape reality for a few hours a day and unwind from the stresses of real life. I don't give a single iota of a fuck about gilnean defender, TOA people, people sucking up to TOA people, or anything else. Fuck. Change the damn subject and move on.

congrats or sorry that happened

[deathbydarkelves]

For your AU 🫅 - are there many people who've stuck with the opposite side to their own. like alliance races characters who've stood by the NElves or NElves who continue to work for the alliance.

Oh, absolutely. No group is a monolith.

Probably the most common reason is personal attachment to someone from the other faction. Political motivation? Sure sometimes, but often it’s just personal connection.

Places like Dalaran are still largely neutral, and it’s there people can forge friendships and romances they might eventually want to take out of the city. Because of these cases, you might very well see even a troll sharing a roof with a dwarf family in Ironforge. These are extremely rare, though, as most who form relationships deep enough to risk that much choose NOT to risk it all, and stay in neutral cities. It’s more practical to just stay in Dalaran than to move to Orgrimmar as a human and require that your orc partner escort you everywhere. But by choice or not, some do go that route.

But, there are certain groups who got lucky and can go freely, at least under certain conditions.

There’s a sizable number of Gilneans (mostly worgen, some not) who stayed in Kal’thalas (the kaldorei nation) after secession. Gilneas is still politically aligned with the Alliance, very strongly so, but there were many Gilneans who felt Kal’thalas had become their home and/or supported secession. There are also many kaldorei who stayed in the Eastern Kingdoms, usually because they didn’t want to uproot again. Tarinne’s father Thywen is one of them.

There are also of course the pandaren and high/blood elves, who (as long as they lie low) can somewhat freely enter territory of the other major faction. Many take new identities out of an abundance of caution. But at the very least they don’t need to deal with fickle, flawed illusion magic.

There’s even quite a few Nightborne who decided they liked the Alliance more and happily live in its territories. In the minds of most average joes of the Alliance, Nightborne still read as “weird night elves”. So they don’t face as many issues as they would otherwise.

I’d say there’s also plenty of engineers of all races who switched over to the Horde so they could work on technology the Alliance wouldn’t allow.

In fact, I’d say the most difficult place to get into if you don’t immediately read as a friendly face isn’t the Horde or Alliance, but Kal’thalas post-secession 😭 The general attitude is one of wanting to go back to the Long Vigil, to just rewind and go back before everything got so horribly fucked up, and that manifests as extreme isolationism and unfriendliness to foreigners. Perhaps it’s an understandable (extreme, but understandable) reaction depending on who you ask, but it’s not doing anyone any favors in the long run. Turns out this whole "doing a sakoku out of exhaustion and traumatized desperation" thing isn't all it's cracked up to be!! And that’s a story that’s gonna play out over a long period of time since we're mostly dealing with elves lol.

((Ask game here))

[maxparkhurst]

Duplicity

Somewhere in the distance, the clock tolled eight.

A warm, ember glow filtered through the curtains to cast a dappling spotlight upon Max. She hovered outside the window pane, peering into what would otherwise be a dim and dark interior. The alchemical sconces were lit to full this evening as her brother and their assistant - an aspiring arcanist named Colette- guided a fresh face through the labyrinth of books, herbs, and alchemical formulae. The new hire was a stripling of an elf, whose name eluded Max despite being introduced not moments prior. Colette fluttered like a hummingbird around the new hire, chirping in his ear as she fed on the nectar of his attention. She plucked vials haphazardly from their cases and paraded them as if they were her own concoctions. Watching her peacock around, knowing very well Max’s departure would not be for another few days, coated the alchemist’s throat in a caustic venom.

She did not want to hire Colette, much less a second assistant. Not for a lack of finance; between the stipends gifted by several organizations and the building’s rent covered by their absentee benefactor, the Parkhursts were to able accrue both monetary and influential wealth. From connections to the Gilnean Black Market, to the discrete research done for the kingdom’s reconnaissances division, it was safe to say that the Parkhursts possessed hands in several pockets. Except for Dalaran. No one held much claim in Dalaran; not as recently.

The shattering of glass caused Max to retreat into the shadow. Colette stood with upraised palms, she and the new hire blinking at the pool of azure and glass at their feet- utterly dumbfounded. A sour scowl drew across Max’s lips. No, it was not a lack of money that made her loathe someone new or novel.

Max’s attention briefly flicked to her brother. Augustine dispelled their stupor with a gentle smile and a chittering laugh. Both Colette and the elf grinned alongside him as they stepped back from the mess. Her brother’s gentle nature disarmed even the most seasoned veteran. Warm and affable, people often drew to him like moths to the flame. Yet as of the last few months, he began to shift. Slow and subtle. Constant, like a shimmer of sorts, dark like an overcast sky. She first noticed it when she woke in Drustvar after a long slumber. She heard it in his voice. In his choice of words. Not wrong. No. Still undoubtedly her brother. But there was deliberation in his words. Reservation. A guarded nature she did not see in him before. He was different. As if possessed of some new secret. Or, perhaps more adequate, stripped of something integral. Augustine was adept at batting away the topic of Drustvar and its witch. Whatever happened, he would not share with Max. He only continued to be different.

Augustine guided them to a new case of potions, directing their attention away from the deepening shadow sewn to his feet. The dark pool rippled and stirred. Tendrils rose from the depths, wavering in the shop’s glow, before coalescing into themselves. Gradually, the dark took form. A mirror image of her brother separated from his shadow. It was void of color and depth as if it’d been clipped from the daily paper. With an off-handed gesture from Augustine, the shade began cleaning the broken vial.

The mishap remedied and forgotten, the three continued their charades. Colette the bird and Elf the sheep, poking and prodding at Max’s work. Shepherded by Auggie - her dearest brother- who was more vulpine than either of them could ever imagine.

Max watched from the other side of the window. The burden of the sky weighed on her shoulders. The Alliance called for aid in Khaz Algar; if she did not go, then he must. And she would do anything to keep him safe within her shadow of silver-spun sophistry.

Some part of her, though, wished to go inside. To banish these newcomers from her burrow…

Somewhere in the distance, the clock tolled nine.

Smoke burned Max’s throat raw. The last of the cigarette sucked down in greedy puffs before being snuffed of its embers. Max tucked the bud in her pocket - after all, she must maintain the image of a consciousness citizen- and pushed off her claimed lamppost. A salt-laced breeze from the harbor rustled her hair, tiptoeing past to the silent gardens of Lion’s Rest. News of Dalaran and the growing onslaught of Nerubians finally reached Stormwind. It suffocated the last inkling of summer idealism, leaving behind a dense shawl of unrest and uncertainty. Many were recruited to the front lines. Most soldiers. Some artisans, scholars, mages, alchemists…

A sigh escaped Max’s chest as she meandered through the stone arches that fed into the harbor. She passed a number of shops on her way, a dozen unlit, a dozen half-lit, and a dozen dying dark. The city was dead as a result of recent events. Which served Max just fine. She needn’t worry about which mask appeared most pleasant. Even if it that dance were almost reflexive at this point. Being clever and pleasant was always exhausting. Better to be seen by no one at all.

She stopped just short of a door nestled where Light, Death, and the Deep meet.

Well- perhaps that was a small lie. There were a few individuals who saw past Max’s facade. And one in particular whose gaze she sought more than anyone’s.

From her satchel, Max fished out a sealed envelope. She ran her thumbs over the corners, ignoring the needle stuck between her ribs. A courtesy, she reminded herself, to a friend. That was the purpose of her letter. Her gaze lifted to the Kraken embossed on the door. A momentary pause as she wrestled with herself, hand poised above the knocker. She sucked the backs of her teeth and withdrew into herself. Standing on the other side of the door, she shifted on cold feet. The burden of her decisions weighed heavily on her shoulders.

Max drew in a quiet breath before placing the envelope in the door’s mail slot. She stepped back into the streets, hands stuffed in her pockets, and took a final cursory glance over the building. All the windows were vacant of light, much like the rest of the city at this hour. She found it rather peculiar and lingered a moment longer. The home’s tenant was gone for the evening. Not a strange occurrence. Yet Max couldn’t seem to shake a distinct feeling of deja vu.

Stuffing tendrils of dread deep into her chest, Max snaked her way through the Cathedral District and towards the Canals.

Some part of her, though, wished to retreat back in time. To a small cottage hidden in the shadows of the Jade Temple…

Somewhere very near, the clock tolled ten.

“He must be worried.”

More statement than question, Max’s voice cut through the Canal’s gentle quiet. She perched on the bridge connecting the Trade District and Old Town. Another sealed envelope sat heavy in her lap. Her myopic gaze lifted from the water and slid to the slip of shadow that lingered a few paces back. At this hour, with the street lamps burning low, the feline appeared paper thin. No more than a piece of shadow-stitched patchwork with eyes that glistened like translucent marbles. No fire burned in its gaze. Those eyes belonged to Calcifer alone.

“Is he still tending to our guests?”

The feline flicked its tail.

Max pursed her lips with a flat-note hum.

“I see.”

She offered the envelope down to the shadow familiar.

It stared back, unblinking.

“Deliver this to Director Hawke for me.” She settled back on her palms when the feline freed her of the missive. Head cocked back and eyes shut, she released a slow breath. “I haven’t the energy to do it myself.”

She was met with silence.

Peeking her eye open, she caught the last glimpse of Calcifer as he stepped out of the lamplight’s halo and dispersed into the evening’s dark.

Alone again.

Some part of her wished that Calcifer had stayed…

____ Mentions: @longveil & @kat-hawke

[thependragonarchives]

KuroWoW Brainworms

race + class combos!!!

Ciel - Gilnean (not afflicted, aka no werewolf) Warlock. He is twelve years old and has a demon butler, not much change there but Gilneas is kinda filled with plague (pretend its pre Dragonflight) so he lost his estate. Sebastian - Sayaad, former member of the Burning Legion. There's very few demons that fit Sebastian in the WoW universe, so Sayaad it is. He uses a human glamour though, and acts as Ciel's butler/guardian. Lizzie - Kul'Tiran Warrior! Kul'Tiras is a land that is bound to the sea, and I think the Midfords would do great there. Plus she could've gone to the Eastern Kingdoms to visit Ciel b4 the fall of Gilneas. Mage portals exist at least! Baldroy - Westfall Farmer to Stormwind Soldier to Chef of Lord Phantomhive. Human warrior. The war against the Lich King and the Cataclysm ruined Westfall, leaving most of its denizens struggling. Baldo took the chance Ciel gave as a second try at life. Finnian - Lordaeronian descent, survivor of the Arugal's experiments. He's also a worgen!! Aka werewolf :D. When the Scourge was rampaging towards Gilneas, Finnian was but a boy when he was taken by the mage and turned into a worgen. Might make him a druid tbh!!

Mey-Rin - Marksmanship Hunter, but I can't decide if she'd be a half elf of Kaldorei descent or Quel'dorei!! Kaldorei are much more attuned to nature, while Quel'dorei (renamed Sin'dorei) are reliant on mana + eventually fel (demonic) magics.

Tanaka- Pandaren Warrior. Did I furryfy grandpa? Yeah. Does the life of Pandaren fit grandpa? Absolutely, especially with the Sha in lore. I plan on drawing them when i get the chance <3

[spiritproductionsart]

"Good gods you're tall..."

A couple concept sketches I made back in February of the bois. Fen is absurdly tall (He's a full head taller than Anduin), permitting him an intimidation factor even in human form.

I've been headcanon-ing worgen to be a little different than they are in canon. In beast form, they have tails - but in human form:

After treating their curse, a few features have notably changed in worgens' human forms. An easy way to tell if someone is a worgen is their pointed ears - nowhere near as large as an elf's, but just a small pointed edge to signify the beast within.

Worgen in their humanoid form also bear pointed teeth, with some sticking out of their top or bottom lip depending on their jaw shape and age.

Finally, hair growth and facial hair. Worgen of all sexes are notable for having more body hair than most, though it is far more present in men over women. Men who shift back from their worgen form may notice the growth of facial hair - even if they had been clean-shaven before shifting. This has led to an increase of facial hair in Gilnean men due to the general upkeep.

[tarttsweetshriek]

Get To Know Me

Basic Info

Name: Tartt Sweetshriek

Gender: Female

Race: Goblin

Class: Death Knight

Faction: Horde

Affiliations: Bilgewater Cartel, The Ebon Blade

Eye Color: Lichfire Blue

Hair Color: Purple

Skin Color: Green

Height: 4’

Age: Adult

Server: Wyrmrest Accord (NA)

Birthplace: Kezan

Profession: Engineer

Body Shape: Small, but Athletic

Likeness: Rhea Ripley (Mami)

Voice Reference (Speaking): Melissa Rauch (Harley from “Batman and Harley Quinn”)

Voice Reference (Singing): Lzzie Hale (Halestorm)

Sexual Orientation: Straight

Relationship Status: Single

Piercings: Tongue Stud (Kaja’mite green color), Skull earring and a stud, (L) Studs (Right Ear), Nose Studs (Right Side)

Tattoos: Shadowmoon Clan symbol from the Kosh’Harg (Left Shoulder)

A tattoo on her back of Blight Boar outlined in purple and green- the colors of Inner Beast. She got this at the Tournament of Ages. This tattoo glows.

Languages: Goblin I Orcish I Common

Hobbies

Likes: Blight Boar, ETC, Inner Beast (Rp band), Heavy Metal, Death Metal, Motorcycles, Explosives, Tight outfits, leather corsets, dresses, dark makeup, socializing, “death knight things”, playing guitar, dancing, attending concerts, singing, raves, hanging out, dressing for special occasions, exploring new places, reading, collecting tomes and letters. Enjoys getting roses on occasion. (Mainly a variety of black roses, Sanguine roses from Revendreth and dread roses from Ardenweald).  

Dislikes: Gallywix, Arthas, forces that threaten Azeroth.

Note: Tolerates Paladins to an extent.

Love Language: Physical touch, complements, kisses, hugs.

Other Info

Smoking: Hookah (if there is one available)

Other drugs: None. (She tried a void mushroom and had a bad experience. Never again). 

Drinking: Socially

Fears: Being alone, “accidentally” not sating her Endless Hunger and becoming a murderous maniac. Being rejected.

Kinks

Breast play: She doesn’t mind if others look/ glance at them. Enjoys them being squeezed, massaged, nipples teased, pulled, pinched, sucked and tugged.

Blindfolded: Enjoys being blindfolded on a soft bed.

Is curious about whips, riding crops, and flogs.

(When she’s feeling dominant): She’s discovered a form of spanking using the Abomination Limb ability. (Glowing green spectral hands that flail around and hit the butt).

Traits

Flirty at times, enjoys company. Serious when she has to be.

Despite expressing negative emotions most of the time (as Death Knights should), she tries to be happy when she’s near the people around her. (Plus, I can’t rp an edgelord all the time).

Family Members

Siblings: Bogble: Goblin Rogue (Alive, but they don’t talk much).

Parents: Deceased.

RP Hooks

You may know Tartt Sweetshriek if:

You fought with or allied with the Ebon Blade during the Northrend Campaign against the Lich King.

You are a Third War and/or Fourth War veteran.

You attend Blight Boar concerts at the Darkmoon Faire (Or Caverns of Time during the anniversary event).

You frequent the World’s Faire Carnival or the Tournament of Ages.

You attend the Lordaeron Night Market. (Rp market)

You attend the Wings and Metal concert. (Rp concert).

You have seen her as part of the security in the Gilnean Black Market.

(Pic was drawn by PoodleArt during the Lordaeron Night Market last year).

Note: If a character has not been to the Shadowlands, black roses will do just fine.

[galderthefuzzy]

Welcome to House Vex

Vex Manor, the seat of House Vex, is a fortified complex hidden high in the Gilnean mountains. Outwardly looking like a gloomy fortress, the nobles of House Vex have made sure that the inside of the extremely spacious complex houses more than just barracks, armory, prisons, and torture dungeons. In recent years, under the rule of the three countesses, the facilities have been rebuilt and upgraded to offer as much comfort as possible, with a full-fledged spa being included. 

This, of course, happened much to the delight of the younger inhabitants of the House, among them Shakai Vex. One of the most prodigal Arcane Archers the Brigade has ever seen, Shakai brings passion and fire both into her duties and her private life, indulging in the luxurious facilities of the Vex Manor quite frequently when not using her arts to decimate legions of enemies. 

My love for horns, hooves and tails isn't limited to the Draenei and Tieflings, which reflects in me painting quite a bit of Satyr related imagery. I have decided to finally bring Shakai to the 'big screen'. I'd love to actually paint a battle piece with her flinging her magical arrows at something nasty, but this idea somehow took over.. for now. Would you accept an invite to Vex Manor? Too risky?

I hope you like how it turned out! 

[ellissay-morningstar]

LFRP: Ellissay Morningstar

Basics –––– ✢

▌NICKNAMES: Elly ▌AGE: 25 ▌RACE: Half-Elf (Quel'dorei mother & Gilnean father. Void Elf in game) ▌GENDER: Female ▌SEXUALITY: Bisexual ▌MARITAL STATUS: Single ▌SERVER: Moon Guard

Physical Appearance –––– ♤

▌HAIR: Long Silver White ▌EYES: Blue Hazel ▌HEIGHT: 5'8 ▌BUILD: Athletic, Toned/Athletic ▌DISTINGUISHING MARKS: None ▌COMMON ACCESSORIES: Jeweled Dagger (usually hidden)

Personal –––– ♢

▌PROFESSION:  Huntress/For Hire ▌HOBBIES: Reading, Writing, Singing ▌LANGUAGES: Multilingual  ▌RESIDENCE: Wherever she is renting at the moment ▌BIRTHPLACE: - ▌RELIGION: None ▌FEARS: Losing what is left of her family

Relationships –––– ♡

▌Spouse: None ▌Children: None ▌Parents: Eclesia Morningstar, Grimsark Blakemore ▌Siblings: Her twin brothers, Damon and Eldon Blakemore ▌Other Relatives: Elutia Morningstar ▌Pets:  Two snow leopards, Nieves and Neva

disorganized / organized / in between close-minded / open-minded / in between Calm / anxious / in between disagreeable / agreeable / in between cautious / reckless /in between patient / impatient / in between outspoken / reserved / in between leader / follower / in between empathetic / unemphatic / in between optimistic / pessimistic / in between leaning optimistic traditional/modern / in between Hard-working/lazy / in between cultured / un-cultured / in between loyal / disloyal / in between faithful / unfaithful / in between

Possible Hooks –––– ♦

▌ Huntress for hire. She takes on contracts to hunt and/or kill creatures that are wrecking havocs on villages or upsetting the balance of nature.

▌For hire-other. Following in her mother's footsteps, she takes on contract work in gathering intelligence and taking out possible targets at her discretion.

▌She enjoys a good drink and can be found at a tavern or bar especially during the weekend late nights. She also enjoys dancing and can possibly be found at local clubs and/or parties.

▌-she is a brand new character that is still in the works of me figuring her out. Any suggestions for a starter for role play is always welcomed.

PLEASE NOTE: I currently do most if not all of my RP in discord. That information can be obtained by messaging me on tumblr in ask or messenger.

What I’m looking for –––– ♥

▌RP partners/Friendship ▌I’m willing to do pre-established ships mainly past relationships, family, old friends, enemies, past business partners. As long as it is talked out and agreed on ahead of time.  ▌Open communication about the RP at all times. ▌RP in discord with possible in-game at a later date ▌Looking for somebody who doesn’t mind if I tag them in posts about our characters with gifs, quotes, and such.

Out of Character –––– ♣

▌I am an older writer/roleplayer, 40+, and when doing NSFW (including erotica, violence, etc) topics, I prefer the writer to be 25+. SFW - 18+ ▌I mostly do para writing, but it can and will vary in length. I have no expectation on length, If you write a line or a chapter, I am good either way. ▌IC and OOC separate at all times. I am not my character, and she is not me. This is very important to me. Please do not take OOC into RP and vice versa. ▌I can always be contacted via Tumblr ask/messenger or Discord, if you have my discord.

Contact Information –––– ✰

Tumblr @ellissay-morningstar

Carrd: In the works

Discord -  Please request. 

In game - Ellissay on Moon Guard

[noonmutter]

Development

DWC Feb 2024 Day 2: Suppress/Pastel

Stromgarde Keep--Terry mused that they probably ought to start calling it Stromgarde Castle, these days calling it a keep felt a bit like calling a dreadnaught a boat--was still new enough that parts of it almost shined under the afternoon sun. He'd spent just long enough in the gloomy, rainy climate of his homeland that he wasn't used to that anymore, and it took him a minute or two to figure out why. He had nothing against the place, its people, or anything else; the brightness and the odd newness of all the construction just set him on edge. As he strode along the walkways toward one of the buildings just off the keep itself, he reflected that he was probably going to feel that way about most of Gilneas in the coming years.

His boots clicked audibly on the cobbles of the pathway, and that added to the unease. Terry Ambroce was farm folk, a street slag, a degenerate; his boots should've been awful, worn, silent things that looked moments away from a trip to the rubbish bin but did their job beautifully. Instead, the fuckers announced his arrival before the secretary had a chance to stand up. The nondescript building had been converted, or possibly just actually become used for its intended purpose as a clerking office, and people dressed in their finest inexplicably-drab-even-under-direct-sunlight Gilnean suits bustled back and forth between one anothers' desks. Stacks of papers in all sorts of quality and condition were everywhere, but Terry noted there were no single sheets drifting across the floor, and no ink spatters on anything.

It was chaos, but it was organized chaos. Sort of, anyway.

"Sergeant Ambroce to see you, Mister Rumpole."

Terry suppressed a snort at the name. It was aggressively Gilnean, teetering on the edge of being too silly to say aloud. Or hear, in his case, but he was not immune to being a childish idiot. He was saved by the sounds of shuffling paper growing suddenly much louder as a fellow who carried himself like a much larger, heavier man rose from his desk to approach.

Much like everything else about his day so far, Terry was not accustomed to being greeted by an outstretched hand rather than a fist holding a weapon. It took him just a second or so longer than the average person might have to react the appropriate way, and he still fumbled a little bit when he grasped the man's wrist instead of his hand. It was a painfully soldier thing for him to do, but Terry had, despite himself, become a soldier at some point.

Mr. Rumpole rallied easily enough and responded in kind, then huffed a short, but nonetheless genuine, laugh. "Of course, I should've thought about that. I promise, you'll find no knives on me, mate, but if you notice a fountain pen anywhere, do let me know. I've been trying to find my favorite and I'm all but certain Jenkins stole it. Egg'd be on my face if he didn't, but at least I'd have it back, eh?"

Terry chose not to tell him he'd spotted six different possible missing inkpens sticking out of all the bits and bobs on the desk he'd left behind, and simply nodded. "'Ave y' considered filin' cabinets, by any chance? Fer th' mess?"

"Oh, surely!" Rumpole turned and led Terry back to his desk, lifting stacks of books and scrolls and parchment out of his way and setting them gingerly back down exactly as they'd been before. "And by the time we actually get them here, we'll be hearing a few offices have finally been cleared up in the city proper, you know how it goes. No, no, we're making do with what we've got, same as we always have, eh?"

He didn't want to, but Terry was already starting to like this man, and that seemed dangerous. He was clearly a lawyer, maybe even a proper barrister once upon a time, and likeable lawyers were tricky. Coming to a stop at the edge of Rumpole's apparent desk, Terry almost asked whether he was supposed to sit, but Rumpole answered that question for him when he grabbed a thin file from another stack and gestured to be followed again.

They made their way to the back of the building, a thankfully much quieter part of the building, though Terry saw that as a warning as much as anything. Not many ways out if this really was all some elaborate ambush. But, Rumpole shouldered open the door at the end of the hall to reveal nothing more insidious than a simply-appointed private office. Which, really, was insidious enough on its own. The light coming through the windows was pleasant enough, and the smell of old paper was mild enough to actually be appreciated, rather than feeling assaulted by it. The furniture, unlike almost everything else in the keep as a whole, carried the air of age around it, despite being immaculate and polished.

Rumpole set the file down and gave the dark, gleaming wood a fond pat, grinning as he nodded Terry toward the chair on the opposite side. "Gorgeous, isn't she? I may not have been the richest man in my firm, but you can bet I went for the niceties when I could afford them! Sadly, she's not my old one. I suspect that's been wrecked along with the rest of the firm, but we'll cross that bridge when we chase the monsters out from under it, eh?"

Terry could only nod. He wasn't quite as unnerved as he'd been when he arrived, but that left him heading directly toward confused, instead. What the hell was he doing in a barrister's office?

"So! You've already got my name, and I've already yours, and we both know you got our Queen's fascinating correspondence or you wouldn't be here, so I won't waste your time going over all that again. I do still have to observe the usual niceties and thank you for your time, of course; I've been doing plenty of reading about you, Sergeant, and nothing seemed more offensive than taking up your time away from your expansive family, eh?"

Ah. This. Terry had seen this plenty of times from the outside, when people were talking to blue-bloods or high ranking officers and the like. It was downright wierd to have it aimed directly at him: The man was buttering him up for something. "I appreciate th' speed-through introduction, mate, but as y' so clearly already know, I was kinda keen on surprisin' my kids by pickin' 'em up from school t'day. No offense t' you, o' course, but kin y' skip t' th' point?"

Another bark of laughter preceded a small flurry of movement as Rumpole untied the twine binding the file, withdrawing a surprising number of sheets from the battered leather folder and spreading them out not unlike a casino dealer would playing cards. "Fair play to you, Sergeant! Well, let's see here..." Turning his back to his guest, he reached up to the sparsely-filled shelves behind the desk and pulled down a much larger, rolled-up scroll that was easily recognizable as a map. As he spoke, he unrolled it to reveal a large portion of Gilneas, laid out in odd, mostly-rectangular shapes with numbers and notes all over each one.

An estate map? What are they trying to pin on me now?

To his frustration, Terry couldn't make out the legend properly from where he was seated without moving the map himself, and Rumpole was already--still--talking.

"As you're obviously aware, Gilneas was finally declared a safe zone, though of course there are still all those pocket skirmishes and little border incursions…"

And now the confusion was giving way to annoyance. "I 'elped clear a fair number o' those pockets. Yes, I'm aware."

"Right, well!" Rumpole had the decency to look suitably chastised, recognizing he was starting to prattle even after he'd skipped a good portion of the prattling already. "Straight to it, Sergeant: My colleagues all across the kingdoms have seen the writing on the wall and, more importantly, on paper, and gathered all the records that still remain intact enough to have standing." He waved one hand toward the closed door to indicate the mass of papers and fellow lawyers just beyond. Then, he placed one finger squarely on a specific point on that map.

Terry's eyes widened as he sorted out where precisely it was.

"I was given the unique honor to be the one to inform you that your family's stead is one of those lucky few. If you wish to claim it, of course. Our recently crowned queen has declared anybody that shows valid claim has, in layman's terms, dibs. Standard post-war repatriation; there's a bit of a shortlist for whatever's left of the noble houses, the officers, and the notables. I suppose you can sort out where you fell on that list, eh?"

"I--my--...wot? Notable?"

"You are the Lighthound, aren't you?"

Terry blinked.

"Sir, I am a barrister. I do research."

"Right, yeah, sorry, I... 'oly shit."

Terry's thoughts were going entirely too fast for him to catch up with, but when they all went in circles, they all eventually wound up in the same place. It was just a matter of waiting them out, and Rumpole, sensing an opportunity to give his prepared presentation, seized on the moment. Though he was still technically listening, Terry spent the majority of that time studying the map. Now that he had a reference point he could work from, the other plots around his family's ranch clicked into place. His neighbors, to the best of his knowledge, were all dead.

Except for the two.

Declan Diggs' father had run a respectably-sized distillery, owed mostly to Big Diggs' love of vodka, of all things. Made him a bit wierd to everyone else--Gilneans were mostly scotch, whisky, and bourbon people--but growing potatoes had only been the start. They were easy to grow, hard to kill, and turned into strong booze, so Big Diggs was all over it. Terry remembered hearing his buddy talk about how his dad was looking at getting a few fruit trees transplanted to try and branch out--gods, Diggs thought he was so fuckin' funny--into wine, but then everything had gone to absolute shit, and Big Diggs didn't make it out alive.

Smits' parents had devoted a ton of time and effort to clearing their own land of stone before he'd been born. The Mathers family had made a killing selling it to various quarries and sculptors, and then turned around and got that crappy dirt worked into good growing soil. By the time Smits was old enough to walk, he was already an accomplished stone-picker, and by the time they were going to school together, Smits already had tons of ideas and plans to get out of Gilneas, see the world, and most importantly, make tons of money and make a name for himself. Much like Terry, he hadn't been clear on what sort of name he wanted to make, he'd just known he'd wanted to make one.

They were all supposed to be big shots, making big shit happen, together. But they weren't, and only some of that had been Terry's fault. He'd already known, from the moment he'd found out what they'd done to him--what they'd tried to do to his family--that they didn't deserve to be forgiven.

But the people they'd been, the friends he'd once known, didn't deserve to be forgotten, either.

"...wish to re-stake the claim, the Crown would be happy to purchase the land back from you for a tidy sum. You could also grant ownership to another party, if you've got someone in m--"

"Where do I sign."

"Eh? Oh! Of course, just here, here, and..."

"And I want first biddin' rights on any o' th' adjacent steads, if their owners give 'em up or don't 'ave sufficient records. These two 'ere," Terry thumped his finger down on the Diggs and Mathers steads in turn, "Their last livin' fam'ly members are in prison fer treason, among other thin's. I doubt they'll want or be able t' claim it. Let me know about those as y' can…"

Terry and Rumpole spent almost an hour discussing the details. After that, Rumpole took advantage of Terry's damn near photographic memory to help sort out some plots they'd had a lot of trouble identifying. By the time they'd gotten too close to the cities for him to be of use anymore, Terry realized another hour had gone by on top of that, and he'd long since missed the window to surprise his kids at school.

It was time to go home.

( @daily-writing-challenge )

[iruthomlogs]

LGBT Pride: Magic lessions

A World of Warcraft fanfiction featuring my character Amelia Rashwrencher and her girlfriend Celene, whose appear in my story Empty Shell, in a entry for @thepromptfoundry Pride and Promptudice prompt magic.

Celene Treefeather awaken with a scream as she remember the fire that covered Darnassus and close in on her, the nightmare place her soul was taken, and her eyes look around to find herself in a strange location with two Forsaken looking at her as one of them comment, "Wow, I'm surprised that these new Darkfallen are huge screamers. Someone get Amelia. She will get this, while I go check on the other ones." Celene is scared about what they are talking about before she noticed her skin is grey and she can't feel her heartbeat, giving her the realization that Celene is raised as a undead, one of them.

The female Forsaken is wearing some mage adventurer gears and have long hair as she said to Celene, "Greetings, my name is Amelia Rashwrenceher, and I'm your teacher on how to use magic when you has been raised as a undead like me." Celene don't know if she should trust this woman given that the Horde, along with her undead kind, kill her and many Kalodrei.

Over time, Celene start to get better in her studies in maigc under Amelia's watch and the two start to get close. Amelia think she finally find the perfect girlfriend, but Amelia feel Celene wouldn't accept her due to the fact that Amelia was one of the many soldiers under the Dark Lady command to burn down Darnassus, Celene's home, and Celene may not like women the same way as Amelia do.

A few months after the start of their training in magic, Celene noticed a sad look on Amelia's face and the undead Kalodrei ask Amelia, "Is something wrong, Amelia?" and the female Forsaken said to Celene, "Sorry... It's just... I don't know if you had a boyfriend or a husband... I thinking some silly things..." and Celene ask, "Why do you think I'm into men?" A surprised Amelia said, "What.... I thought.... the fact that I hear you Kalodrei get paired..." and Celene reply, "Yeah, it is true that most Kaldorei are paired in a male-female relationship, but we accept same-sex romantic relationship, with a male Kalodrei offer to be the father of a child of two Kaldorei women. We are connected to the freedom of nature and there is no rules about who you can love in nature. When we joined the Allaince, then-leader Fandral Staghelm order us to hide our same-sex romance, even outlaw it, to get in the humans' good side in case they don't accept it. When Malurion return and recalmed his role from Fandral, we can finally choose who we can love, and I hear that some Kaldorei take Worgens, Gilneans, and different species as lovers, no matter if they are the same gender or not. Well, I was free to have a romantic relationship with before I got killed." Amelia said to Celene, "Sorry about that." and then ask her, "D-Do you... want to be my lover?" The undead Kaldorei reply, "Sure. You look sad and need a lifebond compansion." and the two women lock lips with each other, kissing with passion.

[gravekeeper-anna]

Waiting for the Gravekeeper, upon her return, was the skeleton she had lovingly assembled piece by piece for the Doctor.  It was meticulously cared for, exhibited by the crisp lines and absence of dust on its freshly pressed suit.  In one bony hand was a full bouquet of thirty-eight white Gilnean Roses— one to mark each day of her absence.  Complete with top hat, everything was fully accounted for... including the tiny glassweb spider nesting in its eye. In the breast pocket was a hand written note, tucked behind its lapel:

My Lovely Dove,

Since you have flown away, it has only deepened my yearning to hear your gentle coo once more.  It pains me to think we parted ways in such an unpleasant manner, and I wish to atone for my mistakes.  Should you be inclined to grace a humble Doctor with your presence, I patiently await your summons… forever, if need be, though my heart would prefer much sooner.

Eternally yours,

Doctor Warrick VanDall

@the-plagued-d0ctor

The Mausoleum in the Whispering Wood awaited: home to the Gravekeeper. Her haunted thicket remained untouched in her long absence; no new corpses awaited her at least to have hinted at doomed intruders. A perfectly preserved state of things, though Anna felt a thread of disappointment in not seeing at least one little trespasser left to slough away in a cage to denote her defenses were working as intended. Perhaps another night...

It was a thoroughly pleasing sight to find the skeletal puppet awaiting her in the bottom most rung of her Memoriam chamber, surrounded by other sculpts and treasures. And more besides. The obscene amount of roses bundled in the skeletal grip drew her own fingers around a head, splitting the petals open to gauge their make or realism. Real white, once living, Gilnean blooms. Her fingers then danced on each head of the whole bouquet in counting, eventually drawing the Glassweb stowaway from its snug hiding spot within the skull's eye.

"Can you believe it, Aida?" she found herself chortling as the delicate arachnid found purchase on her fingertips, raising it to her eye level as she continued. "38 wild white Gilnean Roses. Did you give the gent the idea? How lovely of you!" Fondly, she cradled the little spider between both hands for a brief, almost tender welcome. "Oh my dear, I missed you too." From there, she allowed little Aida to scurry up her arm, in the end tucking between the foamy folds of fettered fabric beneath lines of decorative bone.

The slip of parchment tugged within the lapel of the suited bonework next caught her eye; she certainly didn't remember leaving the Doctor a message on the initial gifting. Of course; it had been another piece of apology.

"Lovely Dove...." the Gravekeeper repeated with mild objection, furthering on with an audible eyeroll she had not the ocular flesh to pantomime. "Gentle coo? Really now..." a sigh of words trailed into stilted speaking as she read aloud for her deathly audience. She considered the rest of his otherwise well written letter. Perhaps more than well written, formal grammar applied, if overly romantic. Each letter seemed painstakingly scripted in ink, perfected to each curving stroke or sharp line, and perfectly legible. A poet's hand, it seemed.

"Interesting, this Doctor VanDall....going against the grain of horrid handwriting I see," she spoke to the air, to her haunts, to her dear Aida as the Gravekeeper made her way back out of her mausoleum, checking on the state of it along the way. "Quite the poet. Practiced, clearly. Do you think he had many paramours in life, lovelorn ladies to write to? Or was he purely a cad for the bored housewives of Gilneas? One to get a little naughty with his patients, even? My word, what is the aim here? Silly Doctor."

Undeath had turned the Lady Handhour sardonic in the face of grand acts of romanticism, sweeter memory rotted away to the emptiness of abandonment, of buried promises for herself and every soul she had touched left hollow by the ache of attachment. But buried beneath needless affirmation and obsessive script she felt and read at the core of the note, an apology, and the sincerity of making amends. A guilt stabbed her like a hidden thorn then as she passed the stair she had heard the sound of his boots on, recalling her hateful words, her threats to a newly risen reaching a new milestone of his own journey. From the humble timbre of his apologetic tone echoing through her chambers, he had only desired to show her his victory. The conquering of his own will.

And still. Had he been truly forlorn beneath that plague mask, to see her depart...?

The Gravekeeper stepped outside of her Mausoleum and from the replaying scenario, steeling herself from the deepening thoughts on the enigmatic Dr. VanDall. The new masterpiece of a Stallion she had crafted in the Storm Peaks beat the grass of her little cemetary with its left hoof, white on faded green. White as bone, as the icy breath from shivering lips, as the petals of remembrance, as a withered veil. She drew close to the deathly equine, running her fingers up the smoothness of its elongated skull.

"I've been lax on my duties, I do think," she spoke to the stoically posed skull as she leaned to set her cheek flush against its muzzle. The chill of the Northern air still haunted its bones, strong, dutiful in purpose to carry the rider that claimed it. "I abandoned one of my own quite rudely," she relented the confession, curling her fingers into its reins to pull in a march alongside her. "So we'll make a visit, and we'll make it right. A Keeper should keep."

{ @the-plagued-d0ctor }

[roselyn-ravenblade]

Did you have a favorite toy as a kid? Do you still have it? If not, what happened to it? Have you ever considered trying to find it, or one just like it?

The Gilnean doll had been the most expensive toy Rose had ever managed to own as a girl, only after a year's worth of pining for it, and tending to every lay duty at the chapel as needed (no trade offs).

She was all of 14 years when she finally received it on Winter's Veil, and her Uncle had told her that she was perhaps getting a little too old for dolls (what lady was too old for dolls!?) and she remembered tearing into the packaging and tearing up simply at the sight of the familiar packaging highlighting the emblem of a the particular dollmaker, of who's window she'd stared at every night to gawk upon the glorious creations. She could hardly remember the name of the dollcrafter or business now, but they had done marvelous work in Old Gilneas, all those years ago.

It was an ostentatiously flamboyant dress on that porcelain doll that she absolutely loved, some piece of example of pure elegance she was much too frumpy to ever pull off in the same way. She remembered herself drawing it endlessly, and with it she got in her practice on the structure of feminine faces to a memorized art, she thought. She thanked that gorgeous doll for the many sessions locked in her room, spent scribbling away.

The doll had been lost many years ago to a crumbled Dalaran like most other things of hers, but she had never again really craved another like it, or owning any porcelain doll at all, really. As she grew from the girl she was, the fantasy for dolls drained for her through the years. They seemed unrealistic or uncanny perceptions of beauty that were unfair, and at times unsettling, Beauty was in the raw wild, found in unconventional ways and places. Dolls were just a bit creepy. Their eyes followed you everywhere you went and expressed nothing.

She'd thought her uncle would be proud of her now, finally outgrowing such things.

{ @themadamelioness }

[wyrmguardsecrets]

[Idgaf what your voice claim is. Your character sounds as I make them sound when I'm reading your emotes. And trust, you sound as ignorant as your character acts.] ngl I read most male dwarf voices as Shrek. Dagren? Shrek. Magni? Shrek. Muradin? Shrek. Your OC? Yeah youre fuckin Shrek..oh and Gilneans are Austin Powers.

[orgrimmar-archive]

azeroth races and their wheelchairs

probably gonna put this one under a cut, it'll be long.

Im going to start with the Alliance since they're on the left side of the screen in the character creator and most people tend to fall towards the left first. Also, I care a lot more about the Horde, so I'm just going to get it over with.

ALLIANCE:

Humans have the really shitty wagon-wheel wheelchairs (I.E, what we see Eraleshk in), because it shares a model with chairs found in Kul'tiras. Also, they're boring. Sorry.

Dwarves have iron-wrought chairs, I'd assume with 3-wheels ala D&D's combat wheelchair, probably with less spikes. I'd assume there'd be a gryphon/hammer motif depending on where it's from.

Kal'dorei chairs are likely similar to their buildings, warped trees grown in a specific pattern to make a sort of low bucket-seat with a raised angle for the legs. Stone/marble reinforcements for the axles and likely some sort of living aspect (maybe a treant willingly allowing itself to grow into the shape so it has little legs?)

Gnomes probably just have mechanical legs, I doubt they would 'limit' themselves to a chair shape. Lame in general.

Draenei likely have another 3-wheel situation, likely powered wheelchairs through the use of their mana/lightforged crystals.

Worgen/Gilneans.. Pompous bastards definitely have some kind of highly detailed embroidery that wears off after any actual activity.

Ren'dorei ... See Sin'dorei, but make it purple.

Lightforged Draenei have 4-wheeled, tanky combat wheelchairs with crystals powering them. I'd assume they'd want to keep as many Lightforged on the field as possible.

Dark Iron Dwarves use.. well, dark iron, obviously. I'd assume there's a drill on the front and those who use them typically end up as tunnelers and miners.

..I don't even want to look at a Mechagnome.

HORDE:

Orcs likely have very combat-centric wheelchairs as well, but for daily use I'd assume it would be simple wood/iron mix, likely with a pelt draped over the seat for extra comfort. I think many Orcs value customizing their chairs as well, with clan emblems and the like.

Forsaken likely just have shitty human chairs with some extra improvements. I'd assume most are salvaged from ruins in Lordaeron and future chairs are expanding on that simple sort of wagon-wheel design, likely incorporating metal wheels for more durability. Perhaps an on-the-go apothecary station as well?

Tauren who use wheelchairs likely are the last to know how to Plainsrun, in my opinion. I'd like to think they're taught how to move on all fours, with their chair supporting their hind legs. For those who would rather not do that, I'd think they'd have 8-wheeled chairs, automated by Kodo if they choose, like a little cart to themselves.

Troll wheelchairs are different depending on the tribe to me, so I'll focus on Darkspear, as they're the main playable ones when just default trolls are chosen. Darkspear chairs likely have a lot of orcish innovation, iron wheel treads and the like, with a totemic motif on the main seat, painted/carved. I'd assume they also have places to hang decorations off of, as a lot of trolls seem to really love just hanging shit up. (Me too though.)

Sin'dorei is the one I've been waiting to talk about. I would assume getting a wheelchair in Sin'dorei culture would be something quite respected, as in my perfect world nobody is ableist to chair users and I can pretend that's true in WoW. I'd think a lot of flowing, phoenix motifs, very obviously alluding to the royal family and to the concept of rebirth in general. Those who have lived through injury or simply have endured to the point that brought them to getting the chair are given a symbolic 'rebirth'. Many flowing, feather-like patterns, especially on the armrests and the wheel-wells. The back of the seat would likely be influenced by the Sin'dorei phoenix crest in some way, and I wouldn't doubt that gem inlays or metal detailing is common. I'd assume the wheels would have a wooden axle with filligree metal on the actual treads. The younger the elf is, the more grand the party is, a celebration of your new beginning and a way to allow yourself to let go of the past.

Goblin wheelchairs are likely a more minature version of their trikes, and probably will explode if exposed to even the smallest of errors. I would not really trust one in the same way I wouldn't really trust a gnome to make a wheelchair for me. They probably have a built in glider in case of a surprise ejection, though.

Shal'dorei wheelchairs are likely similar to Kal'dorei wheelchairs, with a more heavy focus on the stonework aspect. I would assume the chair itself would be wood, reinforced with stone and powered by arcane magic, with elegant cloth detailing and perhaps even drapery. I wouldn't doubt that they lack wheels entirely, and would likely be more like palanquin with magical hoisters.

Highmountain wheelchairs follow their eagle and moose motifs, I'd think. There would be two styles, eagle being more akin to an active/sports wheelchair and moose being more like a regular manual wheelchair. I'd think the eagle wheelchairs would have four wheels while moose have three, and would have a much slimmer profile. That being said, it is likely traditional to paint the seat and wheels yourself when you receive it.

Mag'har orcs likely follow similar traditions to vague-orgrimmar orcs, with more iron. I'd assume their wheels also are just treads, so they're more 'all-terrain'. Depending on the clan, there are different decorations. (For instance, if you were Lightning's Blade, they probably put a lightning rod on you for fun.)

Zandalar does not believe you should push your own chair, so you get a beautiful carriage with raptor attendants, unless you are in favor with Jani, and then you get a legion of saurolisks and a little wagon.

Vulpera probably just use alpacas, but in the event they can't, they likely have small, very portable chairs with metal frames and soft, comfy seats, with ample room for their tail.

NEUTRAL RACES:

Pandaren wheelchairs are likely a mix of wood and metal. I'd assume the frame would be wood, with the axles being metal, and the seats having wood frames with cushions bolted into it. The cushions would likely feature embroidery, and I would even go out to say that you could have it blessed by a certain celestial and it would affect the appearance.

Dracthyr wheelchairs are likely combat focused. I would say that they feature metal primarily, with armor plating and little to no backrest in order to have full range of motion with the wings. If the wings do not work, the backrest would still be low, so as not to smush them. I'd think that there would be seatbelts so the dracthyr could still fly while they are inside of it, and I'm sure they have special chairs /for/ the event that you will be flying often.